Be Safe
by CA Hawkins
Summary: John hadn't seen Sherlock in a long time. He has questions eating him alive and he will get the answers he needs. What would happen when he finally finds out the answers to his questions?


John hasn't seen him ever since the plane incident. He has never seen Sherlock so relieved in his entire life. '_Six months, my brother estimates. He's never wrong._' Sherlock's voice comes back at the back of his head. On the contrary to popular belief, John is not an idiot. If you compare him to Sherlock he's both the brilliant and the idiot one since Sherlock is both the stupidest and most brilliant person he has ever met.

If John would deduce, he'd say that Sherlock looked like he survived something. But what is it? There's a voice at the back of his head that he doesn't want to listen to. '_Death,_' the voice says.

'_Oh some undercover work in Eastern Europe._'  
'_For how long?_'  
'_Six months, my brother estimates. He's never wrong._'  
'_And then what?_'  
'_Who knows?_'

John knows there is something off about what and how Sherlock answered. Sherlock talked like how he did before he jumped on that rooftop - '_Stop thinking about that! It's over! Move on! He's alive!_' He sounded distressed. But this time, it looked genuine. He can see it up closed.

Was he as distressed on top of that rooftop as he was before he went in that plane? He seemed... scared. Like in Baskerville. '_Body's betraying me._' He said.

Sherlock's voice comes back, '_...since it's unlikely we'll ever meet again..._'

Those words. It seems odd. Six months, Mycroft estimated. Undercover work in Eastern Europe. Isn't that kind of what he did in the last two years? Undercover work to dismantle Moriarty's web?

Undercover work. Distressed. Unlikely to meet again. Relief getting out of the plane.

'_He was going to die in six months. Estimated by Mycroft._' The voice at the back of his head says.

John shakes his head in disbelief. That can't be right. Why would Sherlock even go inside that plane? He would have just ran off or something.

'_Unless he was willing to?_'

'_SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP!_' He mentally yells.

He hasn't seen Sherlock since. Is he working on how Moriarty's face flashed everywhere? Is he resting? Is he relaxing? Is he in danger? Is he running around London, chasing some criminals? Is he arrested? Is he imprisoned? Is he on house arrest? Is he with Mycroft?

So many questions. And there's only one way to get answers.

He checks the time. Eight o'clock.

He gets his coat, leaves the house, and heads to Baker Street.

He _will _get answers this time.

* * *

He walks through the familiar street. How he misses the place. He sees the door for 221B and walks there. It makes him feel uncomfortable that he is a visitor rather than the one living in 221B.

He walks up the stairs to the sitting room and is careful to not step on the creaky one. The time he had in Afghanistan and creeping up on criminals helped him be light on his feet.

He hears Mrs. Hudson's voice as he reaches the top of the stairs. "Now, you just rest dear, I'll bring you a cuppa."

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," he hears Sherlock's voice. And if he was suspicious before. Now, he's just concerned. Sherlock sounds tired, exhausted, defeated.

He walks in the room and sees Sherlock curled up on his armchair. It amazes John how Sherlock, tall and all, can fold himself to fit on his armchair.

"John?" he asks as he sees him. Sherlock raises his head. John can see the bags under his eyes - lack of sleep. He seems paler than before. Physically weaker.

"When was the last time you slept?" John asks.

"John, what's wrong?" Sherlock sits up, sensing something wrong for John to come unannounced. "Tell me."

"Answer my question first. When was the last time you slept?"

"This morning." Sherlock answers.

"You don't look like it."

"It wasn't a long sleep." he answers distractingly as he deduces John why he's here. "Why are you here?" He asks, defeated.

"Nothing. I just want to see if you're okay."

"I'm fine," he answers casually, shrugging.

"Are you?"

"Yes."

"Why don't I believe you?"

"Because you're thinking that I'm not fine even if I am." Sherlock stands up slowly. John notices that Sherlock almost falls the instant he tried to stand up.

"Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson says as she comes back with a tray with tea and biscuits. "I told you to relax, sit down." She says, placing the tray on the table and then putting her hands on Sherlock's shoulder and tries to push him to his seat.

Sherlock puts his hands on Mrs. Hudson and smiles at her. John would have thought that nothing is wrong at the moment. But Sherlock's bags under his eyes, his swaying, and his tired eyes say otherwise. "Mrs. Hudson, I relax by standing up. No need to fuss."

"Oh don't give me that, dear," Mrs. Hudson says. John sees Sherlock secretly smile at her.

"Just go do your morning routines or whatever," Sherlock tells her in an annoyed tone, masking his gratitude.

"Doesn't stop me, though," Mrs. Hudson pats Sherlock's shoulder and goes downstairs. Leaving John and Sherlock alone.

"Are you sick?" John asks.

"No." Sherlock answers. "Really, John. There's nothing wrong. I don't know what's making you all..." he gestures to John. "...that."

"I'm a doctor, Sherlock. You can't fool me."

"Because I'm _not_ fooling you," Sherlock rolls his eyes and stands up quickly before falling on the couch.

"Yes, right," John sits on his chair again. "How are you?"

"Oh god," Sherlock rubs his face with his palms. "Small talk. How wonderful!"

John turns on his seat to look at Sherlock. "Look, Sherlock. I'm just trying to talk to you!"

"Then talk! Don't stall!"

"How can I talk and ask if you keep changing the topic?"

Sherlock turns his head to look at him, "I've been honestly answering your questions!"

"Then why do you look so sick?!"

"Because I am sick!" Sherlock spits.

"You told me you weren't sick. I thought you've been '_honestly answering_' my questions? Hmm?"

"I am! But... it was clear that you were asking about the my physical state. What I am saying is that I am sick of this!"

John is taken back. '_Did Sherlock just openly admit that he is sick of something? Odd._'"Sick of what?" he asks softly.

"You," he answers.

'_Ouch_'

"But I barely even see you," John tells him. '_How can he be sick of me when I'm not even here to annoy him?_'

And Sherlock answers, "Exactly."

John feels his brain just got stopped, cut out from his head, thrown to the ground, nailed onto the floor, burned and stomped on multiple times. "What?"

"I'm sick of you being here less and when you do, you do that," he gestures to John again. "Small talk, asking 'how are you' and such. Trying to keep in touch because we barely see each other any more. Isn't that what people do to their friends when they reunite in school reunions? I do not wish to be categorized with them. That would insult me," Sherlock continues, monotonously.

"I'm not insulting you, Sherlock."

"Not on your own accord," he replies.

"So... what?" John ask, he stands up in frustration. "What should I do, hmm? Come back to Baker Street? Leave my life to jump into yours?"

"Is that what you want?"

"No!" John blinks a few times. Sherlock is staring directly at him, not an emotion to his face. "Sometimes. Maybe. I don't know."

"You do know. You just don't want to say it."

John sits down again. "What happened to you?"

Sherlock gives him a confused look. "What do you mean?"

"When you were playing hide-and-seek, what happened? You never told me what happened."

"You never asked," Sherlock says and John feels like a string broke inside of him. Guilt, he's feeling.

"I'm asking now."

"Like I said, I dismantled Moriarty's web."

"Is that it?" Sherlock nods. "No it isn't, Sherlock. I want to know what happened. Did something bad happened? Did you meet people? Did Mycroft help? How did you capture those who needed capturing? What _happened_?"

The gears of Sherlock's mind is moving - John can see it through his eyes. He's hesitating, he can tell. "Right... Right," Sherlock says distractingly. "Let's see. I faked my death... Remember those snipers I told you about? The ones you carelessly wrote in your blog," John remembers indeed. "Mycroft took care of them. All three of them. Shame, I admit," John look at him but Sherlock just keeps on staring at the ceiling. "I would've wanted to... talk to them."

A shiver runs through John's spine. "What else?"

"Went around the world. I admit I had a few cases in other parts of the world while hunting Moriarty's men. Of course, people don't seem to recognise me and I'd just be the consulting detective, like before... Instead of being the Reichenbach Hero... They were all boring... Anyway, I'd find parts of Moriarty's web, and take care of them. It was bitter work. All the people... All the commotion... The threats..." Sherlock's breath hitches but John doesn't notice. He's taking in what Sherlock is saying. "There would be times that the string of his web would be too lose, it's like a little click of the finger and it's gone. But most of it are strings made of steel. Hard to break. That's the most challenging of it all..."

"Why didn't you just let me help you? I could've helped. I was a soldier, you know."

Sherlock's eyes roam around the room, as if searching what is appropriate to say. "It wasn't an option."

"And why on earth not?"

Sherlock sighs, "I couldn't."

"Couldn't what?! Sherlock, stop being cryptic and just say it! I don't know the answers!"

"I couldn't drag you into all that."

John whispers, "Why not?"

"You deserve a life, John. Not my life. You need to get your own."

"Oh and you're the expert on what I deserve now, hmm? I grieved, Sherlock."

"I know."

"And you didn't even bother to come back even if you knew."

"I didn't know. But I _know_."

"Damn this cryptic messages again."

"I didn't know you'd grieve my death. I told you I was a fake, John. I assumed you would've leave it at that knowing that my intelligence is based on lies. But I know it now... Hopefully..."

"And you think that telling me that your intellect is a fake, that I would believe you and leave?" Sherlock nods. "Sherlock, I became your friend, not because of your intelligence. You're more than that, you idiot. You're human. You're a good man. A man anyone would've been honoured to be friends with."

"I don't understand."

"Sherlock! Your intelligence is not the only thing that gives you worth! I meant it before, you're the best person I could ever hope for. And best could mean anything. But I mean it in every sense of the word." Sherlock looks up at him, frozen. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock closes his eyes and sighs, "You say such moving words, John." And John knows that it's his version of thank-you.

"Why haven't you been sleeping?" John asks and Sherlock looks at him. "Okay, I confess that I talked with Mrs. Hudson for a while now."

"Memories," Sherlock quietly answers.

"Sorry, what?"

"I said, 'memories'," He answers.

"Nightmares?" Sherlock winces at the word.

"Something like that."

"Talk to me, Sherl."

"It's... It's er..." Sherlock clears his throat. "Dismantling Moriarty's web is a challenge. I've been captured a lot. Many times. I got treated what they think I deserve," Sherlock swallows. "Usually they use their fists and hit me at parts of my torso that would easily numb my arms and such. It would seem that they have a knowledge of Human Anatomy and use it for amusement. Quite impressive, I admit. You should have met Sebastian Moran." He pauses. "No. Scratch that, you should not meet Sebastian Moran. Ever," Sherlock says angrily. "The last piece of Moriarty's web was difficult. I was finished but I still got captured after all that. They didn't do anything that was worse than I've already experienced but the one that bugged me the most about the last piece is how long I got to stay there. Mycroft intervened and so I got me out. He thinks he got me out, stupid Mycroft."

"What did Moran do to you?" John feels like he cannot breathe. His fists clench and unclench.

"Just... You know," he shrugs as if talking about the weather. "Punches, kicks, electrical charges, burning, cigarettes, force-feeding, failed-attempt manipulation, knives, bullets, forced to watch things..." John can see Sherlock is getting more distressed by the minute and so he stands up and sits in front of Sherlock.

"Okay... Okay, Sherlock..." He puts a hand on Sherlock's forehead. He's so cold, sweaty, and pale. "You're safe now, Sherlock."

"Don't," Sherlock says, gently removing John's hand form his forehead. "No no no, don't do that."

"Why not?"

"Doctoring me won't work. I'm fine... Just... troubled."

"Troubled?" John laughs in disbelief. "You need my help."

"No."

"Sherlock. You need my help."

"Why?"

"Because you need it."

"You're not making sense."

"It does have sense. You're just too stubborn to see it. Do the maths, Sherlock. You're _troubled_ and you want to get rid of this _troubling_ thing, right? And what, you've been trying to get rid of it ever since you returned?" Sherlock nods. "Obviously, doing it by yourself isn't working, right?" Sherlock shrugs. "You need help. And me helping you is the best option here. Unless you want another doctor to help you," Sherlock gives John a horrified look. "Exactly."

"I'm glad you're safe," Sherlock suddenly says.

"I'm always safe. And I'm here to keep _you_ safe."

Sherlock's eyes are dropping, "Friends protect people," Sherlock mumbles.

John doesn't know why. But he feels awful instead of feeling warm.

* * *

John stays in the flat as Sherlock sleeps. He wants to be there if.. IF.. Sherlock ever has a nightmare. At least he'd be there to help him. He cannot even imagine what Sherlock is thinking. The giant Mind Palace of his, going to ruins because of memories he cannot delete. If he was Sherlock, he'd go mad. Apparently, he isn't the only one hurting in those two years. Imagine what would have happened if he left again.

And then a thought comes. One that he couldn't keep out from his mind. He calls Mycroft.

"Doctor Watson?" the man on the other line says.

"Hey Mycroft. I just want to ask something," he whispers.

"Anything."

"What was Sherlock's punishment for... the thing with Magnussen?"

He hears silence. He hears Mycroft clear his throat. "An undercover assignment in Eastern Europe. Why?"

"What was the thing about six months?"

"I.. er.." He hears Mycroft mumble. "That's the estimated end date of the assignment."

"End date?"

"Indeed."

"What? After six months, he'd come back to London?"

"Something like that."

"He told me that that was the last time we'll see each other again."

"Yes."

John rubs his temple in frustration. "Spare me the confusing Holmes-encryptions. Just tell me."

"I think it's not my place to tell you," he walks towards his old room to talk without waking Sherlock.

"You're the British Government, you can get away with anything."

"Not if it concerns my brother."

"I won't tell him you called."

"And you think you can fool him?"

"Promise."

"I estimated that the undercover assignment would prove fatal to him in six months..." John feels his phone slip from his hand but then his sudden iron grip prevents it from falling. His breathing becomes uneven and he might actually have a panic attack. "John-"

"And you were going to let him go there? He's your brother."

"I know."

"And he was willing enough to go there? Is he that stupid?"

"John, let me ask you some questions that may help you clear your mind."

"Okay... Okay.. Fine.. All right.."

"Why was my brother sentenced to do this undercover work?"

John clears his throat, "He shot Magnussen."

"Why?"

"I don't know."

"Try to think, John."

"Because.. er.." John thinks hard and Sherlock's voice comes from the back of his head.  
'_Give my love to Mary. Tell her she's safe now._'  
"To keep Mary safe."

"Why would he try to keep Mary safe?" John swallows. He can't say it out loud. He's the British Government, for goodness' sake. If he finds out that Mary is the one who shot Sherlock... His daughter... "Doctor Watson, I already know about his shooter." And John grows pale. "Sherlock refuses to let me get a hold of her."

John grows angry. "But she shot him! Are you saying that Sherlock tried to keep Mary from harm? The _assassin_ who shot him?"

"You're being blind, John Watson. Don't think of the what and the who. Think of the why. Why would Sherlock try to keep her safe?"

"I don't know! She lied to all of us! It's like there's no reason to keep her safe."

"Doctor Watson, who's Mary?"

John blinks, "What?"

"Who's Mary Morstan?"

"I don't understand. She's..." '_She's A.G.R.A. There is no Mary Morstan, unless you count the still-born in Chiswick Cemetery._'

"Let me rephrase that: Who's Mary Watson?"

"The woman who became my wife."

"And what did she do when Sherlock was believed to be dead?"

He thought for a while "Helped me get through with it."

"And if you were in Sherlock's shoes, seeing your best friend happy after your death because of someone he met, what would you do?"

"Be glad for him."

"Precisely."

"So you're saying that Sherlock tries to keep Mary safe because he thinks Mary is the one makes me happy?"

"What do you think?"

"I think someone's going to have a talk with me today."

"I'd think so."

"Goodbye Mycroft."

"Always a pleasure, Doctor Watson."

John hangs up and he feels like his body is going numb. Sherlock getting tortured was bad enough but knowing that Sherlock just threw away his life to keep John happy and safe.. It's just making him feel sick.. Sherlock's right. He'd get sick of it.. He feels faint.. The things Sherlock would do to save him..

He remembers it all now.

How Sherlock let himself bleed out so Mary and John could talk. How he cried in pain when the paramedics came in 221B after seeing Mary as the client. How much he risked his life to save him. Why he jumped off that roof. How Sherlock willingly shot a person in front of many witnesses to keep his wife safe so he'd be happy. '_Sherlock you idiot_.' How he looked at him when he thought he's going to die. How he looked when he thought it was the last time he'd see John. How red-rimmed Sherlock's eyes were when he came out of that plane. How much Sherlock cared.

All for him.

And he's been blind. Forgetting him completely. Not calling for a long time. Leaving Sherlock all alone when he needed someone. He feels incredibly guilty.

* * *

Sherlock stirs and opens his eyes. No nightmares. And he slept for seven hours. That's good. John looks at him as he stares back. "Morning," John greets.

"It's four o'clock in the afternoon."

"Eat," John gestures to the meal Mrs. Hudson made for him a few minutes ago. "You need to eat."

Sherlock sits up to eat. Thankfully, no case except for that surprising revelation of Moriarty's face. "There's something in your mind," Sherlock deduces.

"Six months," John answers and Sherlock freezes. "What was the six months for? I've been thinking about that a lot."

"Fatality."

John sighs in defeat. Sherlock told the truth. He asked and he said the truth. "Why didn't you tell me when you were going to that plane?"

"It's better when you didn't know."

"Why?"

"I already saw you grieve. I don't want that to happen again."

"Brilliant," John says, sighing in sadness. "Just brilliant," his voice breaking.

"John I-"

"No, Sherlock. This.. This is just..."

"I'm sorry."

John looks up to see Sherlock. He looks like the time in the Tube Station when he thought he was going to get blown up. '_Oh god, was he actually telling the truth and crying at the time?_'

"For what?" John asks, distressed.

"Everything."

"There's nothing to be sorry for, Sherlock."

"Still.. Sorry."

"No. I'm not going to accept your apology because there's nothing to apologise for."

"All right."

"Did you really shot Magnussen to keep Mary safe and therefore keeping me safe and happy?"

Sherlock closes his eyes and sighs. He shrugs in reply.

"Why?"

"Because you're John Watson."

John shakes his head, confused, "Sherlock I-I don't-"

"And I owe you everything. Always."

"You're the best, greatest, kindest, most considerate, emotional, caring person I have ever met." John stands up and sits beside Sherlock. "You don't owe me anything. And you never will."

"No I-"

"Shut up, Sherlock," and he wraps his arms around Sherlock and hugs him. "Thank you," John whispers.

"No John. Thank you."

* * *

AN: I don't own the characters... Unfortunately..


End file.
